


Overwatch: Tracer The Talon Toilet

by SlutWriter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Degradation, F/F, F/M, Fart Domination, Farts, Humiliation, Lesbian Sex, Mind Break, Multi, Rimming, Scat, Scat Domination, Scentplay, Shit Eating, Threesome - F/F/F, Verbal Abuse, huge ass, musk, ntr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 07:43:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: Thicc-assed dommes Widowmaker and Sombra team up to turn their captive, Tracer, into a fart-huffing, shit-eating toilet whore.





	Overwatch: Tracer The Talon Toilet

**Author's Note:**

> Big Fucking Disclaimer: This story is not an attempt to add something nuanced and thoughtful to the Overwatch fandom but rather a taboo, extreme stroke fic meant to aid in masturbation, which happens to carry the trappings of the Overwatch universe. It is unbelievably lewd and without redeeming social value. Make sure you understand this and temper your expectations accordingly before reading any further.

  
It was impossible to say “Cheer’s luv, the cavalry’s here!” through a ball-gag. Thus, Lena Oxton, the perpetually-peppy heroine of Overwatch fame, was robbed of all her one-liners by a bright orange oral obstruction, fastened to her head by black leather straps. Through it, “ever have that feeling of deja vu?” was reduced to a drooling, muffled moan that contained only vowels, and “look out world, Tracer’s here!” became  _oo ou orwgh, aearh anngh_! Despite this, her Talon captors, Widowmaker and Sombra, took delight in making her recite these lines again and again as she was restrained ankle and wrist by manacles attached to the walls, which spread her arms and legs and left her body, naked except for a stripped down chronal accelerator that did little but stabilizer her in time, lewdly exposed.  
  
Her prison was a scant cell that had formerly served as a bathroom, with grungy, urinal-inlaid walls of jaundiced tile on either side and a large Japanese-style porcelain toilet in the ground beneath. Each day, Widowmaker and Sombra would come in to torment her and tilt her mind ever-closer to the edge. She spent most days with her thighs spread and her arms stretched to either side, her naked body dripping with sweat as dozens of tiny egg-shaped vibrators were taped to her perky nipples, her clit, and lodged in her tight pussy and up her ass. They were kept at a low hum, teasing her with orgasms she couldn’t quite reach, as she passed the hours away, denied contact with her former life or even the comforts of clothing and amenities.  
  
Her predicament wasn’t enough to mask her well-known charms. Tracer’s limbs were as long and graceful as ever, standing out even more with her bodysuit absent and her perky, medium-sized breasts hanging out on either side of the chronal  _stabilizer_  that was held on her chest by X-shaped straps that divided her breasts. Stout adhesive tape made sure that her blushing, pokey nipples were continuously stimulated by miniature vibrating eggs. Her manacles kept her ankles locked a bit further than shoulder width apart and caused her to slump in a knock-kneed stance that showed the limberness of her thighs as they framed up the Y-shaped delta of her sex, which blushed with humiliating engorgement beneath a patch of pubic hair that matched the color of the trademark spiky cut atop her head. Lena didn’t  _want_  to be aroused, but with vibrating eggs strapped to her clit and lodged inside her vaginal canal (the slim power cords trailing out like the umbilicals of unseen electric babies) she scarcely had a choice, and her toned inner thighs were painted with the evidence of her unwilling secretions.   
  
As ever, her bouncy, gravity-defying ass was the main event, curving out from thin hips in a jiggling bubble that was enticingly athletic. This highlight, too, was filled with several vibrating eggs, which when turned to max settings coaxed unspeakable feelings of humiliating pleasure out of her tight, inviting asshole. In happier times, her girlfriend Emily had coaxed unspeakable feelings of spine-tingling pleasure with just a teasing touch of this orifice. Now, Tracer felt her self-control slipping away along with her dignity, as she was driven time and again to anal orgasms by her captors’ simple turn of an intensity knob.  
  
This primed-and-ready body, suspended and dripping with sweat in the tawdry, stinking confines of the disused bathroom, provided a canvas for the degradation that Sombra and Widowmaker heaped on her. They slapped her. They pinched her. They made her drool out her her lines through her ball-gag and even filled her ass with degrading cum enemas from the tanks of  _burro_  semen that they had collected for humiliation purposes, filling her until her slender belly was swollen and she could take no more, making her moan with orgasm through her ball-gag as her tight little asshole exploded with humiliatingly sloppy donkey-cum farts into the urinal below. In the few times she was allowed to eat, Lena took her meals from a tube that fed her a warm, chunky meal of  _burro_  semen that was pumped down her throat until she couldn’t help but vomit. And all the while, through every humiliation, the vibrators continued to buzz and she was made to beg and plead and degrade herself for Sombra and Widowmaker, so they would turn up the vibration levels and allow her to cum.  
  
In the unkindest cut of all, they made her orgasm while watching surveillance videos of her lesbian girlfriend Emily being railed by Winston’s monstrously-huge gorilla cock. She had literally  _heard_  Emily’s tight little pussy  _rip apart_  from the girth of Winston’s hairy, black rape rod, and her once perfectly-content life partner babbled in the recordings about how hard she was coming, that she never wanted to see Lena’s  _rug-munching, dyke ass_  again and that she wanted to succumb to a new life of brutal  _gorilla rape_. Though the veracity of these recordings was in question - Sombra being an expert in information warfare - there was no denying the sinful, disgraceful cum-quakes the humiliation coaxed out of Tracer’s trembling core. As each recording played, Sombra and Widowmaker turned up the vibrators and Lena couldn’t help but cum in humiliating fashion, squirting all over herself as her two tormentors laughed and pointed and told her she was dumb whore who had been cucked by a gorilla.  
  
She had to ‘buy’ her orgasms with her own dignity; with each sign that her will was slipping her enemies would let her cum more and more. So she opened her mouth to take their spit, stuck her face into the rear-end of their sweaty, clinging bodysuits and recited whatever humiliating things they wanted, telling them that she was a  _dumb dyke_ ,  _a rug-munching piece of shit_ , that she would happily eat out their pussies every day. The worst part was - she could feel her mind slowly changing.  _Looking forward_  to the release that would come with utter humiliation. With licking pussy and ass and drinking donkey cum, with sucking on tongues and telling them she wanted them to  _sit on her face_. In the beginning she had vowed to resist completely, whatever indignities befell. But as the hours and days passed with no release from stimulation and torture except to completely submit, the link in her mind between grotesque acts of subjugation and physical pleasure was becoming more pronounced. Tracer could feel it happening, but was powerless to stop it. She felt herself losing track of the days and slipping into mewling servitude at their whim, her body needing to feel release after hours of sadistic vibrator priming.   
  
The previous afternoon, Widowmaker and Sombra had been in particularly foul moods, slapping her tits red and then letting her know that, after a month of starvation and cum-subsistence, it was time for Tracer to get back to ‘solid food’. After that ominous decree, they left her - slapping a blindfold over her eyes and a ball-gag in her mouth, giving her twenty-four hours of vibrator-thrumming torment to guess just what sort of ‘food’ they had in mind. Tracer believed she knew, and it surely didn’t involve a cold pint and some fish and chips. They had been subjecting her to more and more filthy acts of subservience in the preceding days… could making her consume their excrement be far behind? Thus, a day later, when Lena heard an access card swipe and the metallic clank of a bolt opening, as she had so many other times when Sombra and Widowmaker arrived for her daily torment, her belly swam with dread.  
  
“ _Mierda_!” came Sombra’s Latin-accented voice from the darkness. “I can’t believe you convinced me to grow out my underarms! Everywhere I walk, I can smell myself.” Her stomach gurgled and she stifled a sour burp. “Ugh! I also shouldn’t have eaten all of that meat that was past expiration. But I’ve been so hungry lately. I swear, everything goes straight to my ass!” There was the sound of a zipper peeling down and clothes being tossed haphazardly aside. Tracer moaned as she felt a haze of sweat waft against her face, as if the skin revealed by the doffing of clothes was absolutely drenched in stinky, musky perspiration that it was now her duty to inhale.  
  
Then, a second familiar voice. “It’s the same for me,  _chérie_. I had to order a new bodysuit because my ass grew so large! This new one doesn’t breathe at all - I am swimming in sweat!” There was no mistaking that voice. ‘Had to order’ was ‘ _ad to ordeur_. After so much deprivation, Tracer’s senses were especially keen to the sound of her captors; she could detect every breath and step of their feet with intense clarity. She whimpered and tried to strain toward them from her bonds, hoping they would touch her body and trigger the orgasm that the attached vibrators had been priming for hours. Despite the humiliation of showing her dependance like a slinking, servile dog, she need to cum  _so badly_. No matter  _what_  they had planned, her body was a torch, it was burning with need.  
  
“Patience,  _putana_ ,” Sombra scolded. “Finally the day has come for you to become a true Talon operative!” Tracer sensed a hand moving near her face, and then, suddenly, there was light - the first she had seen in more than a week. She blinked her expressive amber eyes to adjust to grimy overheads in the dingy tiled bathroom, as well as the two female figures  towering over her.  
  
Tracer whimpered. Both Sombra and Widowmaker had 3/4ths turned their bodies toward her, looking down over their shoulders and presenting their huge, round asses. Both women were already world renowned for having amazing butts, but the fat, wobbling meat globes in Tracer’s face were even larger than before! Sombra’s cheeks were straining behind skin-tight leggings that seemed fit to tear at the seams, and Widowmaker’s trademark bodysuit seemed like it would rip right open down the middle at any second, considering the enormous size of her huge, latex-stretching buttocks. Sombra had taken off her familiar jacket to reveal an undershirt-like top which was skin-tight, and exposed unshaved underarms that were dripping with sweat! Lena’s nostrils flared as a nose-burning, gym bag stink poured into her head. “Nnghghghg!” she moaned, drooling through her ball gag, amber eyes wide at the bronzed ass-mounds and sweaty pits on display - not to mention Sombra’s obvious sadistic stare, blazing down on her from beside the cascade of her trademark cyberpunk side-shave.  
  
“Could you unzip me?” Widowmaker asked Sombra, as she positioned herself in front of Tracer’s face. “I’m so sweaty! I feel like I am swimming!” She gritted her teeth and gave Tracer a warning. “And do not even think of moving your face, slave!” Tracer uttered another moan as Widowmaker stood almost directly over her face and Sombra reached out and peeled down the zipper of her familiar bodysuit. Tracer watched as the material split to either side end revealed the French assassin’s toned, blue-hued back - which was covered in a dazzling patina of sweat! Tracer hadn’t even thought that Widowmaker  _could_  sweat, but the evidence was pattering down on her face in fat, greasy droplets and a musky haze of trapped suit-stink!  
  
When the zipper reached her lower back, Widowmaker thrust out her shapely rear and basically sat on Tracer’s face, bidding Sombra continue unveiling the goods as she moaned with satisfaction at giving her sworn enemy, Lena Oxton, a faceful of her sweaty ass and pussy. The bodysuit was absolutely soaked, and a wet spray of aerosolized sweat basted Tracer’s eyes, nose, and mouth as Sombra finished unzipping and pulled the bodysuit down. For Widowmaker, the very act of baring her goods in Tracer’s face seemed to turn her on. “Nngh! Yes! Take a big inhale!” she hissed. “I haven’t changed clothes in days and now you can smell it all you like!”  
  
Tracer moaned from behind her ballgag and took a deep breath. The effect was immediate, as her eyes began watering even more and rolled up slightly in their sockets as she slumped down. Sombra looked on with approval as she saw the effect that Widowmaker’s dominating, face-sitting sweat bath was having on Lena, and reached behind her to start undoing her ballgag. “I don’t think we need this anymore, do you?” she teased, unbuckling the device and sliding it roughly off. “Your mouth is going to be very busy!”  
  
“Augh! Uuuugh!” Tracer managed to huff, before Widowmaker lowered her rump into Tracer’s mouth and nose, sitting on it like a chair and enjoying the pathetic moans that were fluttering against her pussy. Tracer’s nose was shoved right against the puffy, darker-blue ring of her asshole and her mouth was jammed into the soaked folds of her slit, providing quite a satisfying stimulation for the assassin. Yet no physical stimulation was as satisfying as hearing the muffled cries of Lena Oxton, her insufferably peppy nemesis, getting her just desserts! She began to slowly gyrate her hips and mop Tracer’s face with her thick, moist labia, painting her with perspiration and the lubrication of her wet, steaming twat. “How do you like the taste of my  _sweaty cunt_? Much better than your girlfriend,  _non_? I’ll make sure not to wash it ever again, just for you! I hope you like the taste of fish!”  
  
Tracer moaned pathetically as her brains were assaulted by her musk of Widowmaker’s unshowered quim. The overpowering sexual scent was ringing all sorts of unwilling bells in her thoroughly lesbian brain, and that combined with the thrumming vibrators to nearly make her cum as she felt the fat folds of Widow’s mound rubbing her nose, lips, and cheeks.   
  
“Let me have a turn!” Sombra objected, using her ample, caramel-colored hips to bump Widowmaker to the side. She had peeled down her tight lycra pants to reveal her a thick latina ass of surpassing size and roundness. As with Widow’s rear, Sombra’s seemed to have grown to instagram-model proportions - a pair of bulging, jiggling globes that had been a challenge for her tights to contain. As she moved to squat on Tracer’s upturned face, her belly gurgled and she winced, holding a hand to her pelvis. “Fuck! I should not have eaten that strange-looking steak and all of those refried beans! I have such a case of the  _shits_!”  
  
Tracer’s eyes widened as she beheld Sombra’s bulging, sweaty asscheeks. The renowned hacker wore no underwear and was totally bare from the waist down. “W-wait, no, please!” she objected.  
  
Widowmaker slapped her on the breast, drawing a wounded peep. “Well if that is your attitude, we will never let you cum!” she said, icily. “I guess I’ll just shut all these vibrators off.” Sombra handed off the master control with a mischievous smile, and Tracer felt the stimulation of her pussy, asshole, clitoris, and breasts start to wane. No! It wasn’t fair! She had been  _so close_. So close to an orgasm that had been teased for over 24 hours! To come that close and not climax… it would drive her mad! Thus, Tracer did the only thing she could. She desperately moved her face forward, driving her nose and mouth between Sombra’s fat asscheeks and extended her tongue to start licking and slurping at her fat, sweat-soaked labia and the bumpy, raised rim of her asshole.  
  
Sombra smiled as Tracer’s face smooshed into her ample ass-crack, completely disappearing between the bronzed latina cheeks that had grown in size so considerably in the weeks and months prior. “Ha!  _Sí!”_ she grunted, gritting her teeth. “That’s a good girl. Suck the smelly farts out of my ass,  _putana_!” She made a noise of exertion and her belly rumbled.  _Phhbbbt-bt-bt-bt-bt!_  Tracer groaned out in response as Sombra cut a low, bubbling fart directly into her face. Lena could feel her captor’s asshole straining outward against her lips before pumping the sputtering expulsion straight up her nose. It  _stank_! Her mind immediately went blank from the spicy, searing stench - a rancid meaty pong that seemed to rush straight into her brain. She cried out but it was muffled by Sombra’s all-encompassing ass, and though she instinctively tried to pull away, Widowmaker’s grip on the back of her head was firm.  
  
“Oh, fuck!” Sombra gasped. “This is the worst gas I’ve ever had!” She grunted and squinted her eyes again, ripping three rapid-fire farts into Tracer’s face that sounded like paper tearing. “Fuck! How do you like the smell of my loose shit,  _putana_?” She grunted again and, making sure Tracer’s mouth as pressed against her asshole, bit her lip with lewd concentration.  _Pblbbblbbbbbb-bbbt!_  It was low enough to be a bass note on a synthesizer, and nasty enough to be the dying throes of a backed-up drain that was about to blow. Tracer moaned again and struggled as her eyes rolled back into her head. Sombra was absolutely defiling her once-peppy face with the nastiest, smelliest farts imaginable, and she was taking every one into her nose and mouth, polluting her body with the pure essence of her sadistic jailor.  
  
“Nnngh!  _Mierda!_  I swear, I shit myself that time!” Sombra crowed, wiggling her phat latina booty against Tracer’s face. “I can smell it from here!” She rose up a little and let Tracer disengage; the dazed-looking brit only coughed and gagged for a moment before Sombra turned around and grabbed her by the chin. “This is what you have to look forward to with Talon,” Sombra said, her voice heavy with sinister intent. “For the first year, you’ll do nothing but act as our toilets!  _Lo entiendes?_ From the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep, you’re going to suck the farts out of my ass!”  
  
Tracer made a gagging noise and dry heaved, but there was no hiding the wetness of her pussy under its buzzing squadron of vibrators. Widowmaker leaned in, tousling her spiky hair and then grabbing a fistful, bringing Tracer to her feet. “We both haven’t showered in a long time,” the assassin confided, licking her lips. “We need a good cleaning!” Sombra raised her arm, revealing a slick, sweat-glistening mat of inch-long black hair, flattened against her skin and moving with the directions and folds of her armpit. It looked very much like a well-groomed bush and was absolutely soaked in perspiration. A blast of musky air assaulted Tracer’s face as Widowmaker forced her into position.  
  
“That’s it! Lick me like a good dog!” Sombra encouraged, and then moaned with arousal as Tracer’s face pressed into her armpit. She moved her shoulder downward, smearing her sweaty alcove all over Tracer’s face and leaving her no respite from the pregnant droplets of sweat that seemed to be pouring down her sides. “Clean me and we’ll see about turning those vibrators up again!”  
  
Lena’s cute, small nostrils bulged as she was forced to take a long, loud sniff. Sweat flew up her nose and Sombra’s spicy musk assaulted her brain. “Nhggghghg!” she gurgled, like a drug-addict about to pass out after a brain-damaging line of cocaine. “You... stink... so fucking bad!” Widowmaker punctuated this by thumbing the vibrator levels up a notch, making Tracer moan out into the forest of pit-hair around her mouth. “It’s… it’s…” Her knees wobbled and knocked together and she collapsed against Sombra’s side, burying her face into that underarm and crying out into it with an approaching orgasm. “P-please!” she begged, pathetically. “Turn them up more! I need it!”  
  
“You know what you have to do!” Sombra scolded. “ _Vengaaaaa, perrito!_  Lick your mistress clean!”  
  
Tracer gasped into Sombra’s pit-hair and then extended her tongue desperately, giving up all semblance of resistance in exchange for the orgasm they hoped they would give her. She licked and sucked and slurped at that sweaty cupola with humiliating enthusiasm, pursing her lips around clumps of hair and straining the sweat into her mouth, flattening her tongue and bathing the whole area, punctuating it with lewd moans and gasps. As Widowmaker bumped up the vibrators again, permitting her to achieve a degrading climax, she was wiggling and sucking and tongue-fucking Sombra’s underarm like it was her girlfriend’s pussy, losing herself in the overpowering, musky  _stink_.  
  
The flood of joy that poured through Tracer as she came was the furthest proof yet of Talon’s increasing conditioning of her mind. In the moment, she was so grateful to be permitted to cum that she would have done _anything_ ; moreover, she was  _glad_  to serve Sombra and Widowmaker in any way they wanted and felt actual pleasure at reverential pleasure at cleaning Sombra’s body. She recognized a sick pleasure in doing the duties of a slave for her goddess, providing an anointing with her tongue and mouth, and was powerless to stop it. The weeks and weeks of orgasm-torture and mental strain were breaking her down.  
  
Tracer considered these things as she collapsed back down to her knees, her arms held outstretched by the manacles which kept her in a crucifix position. Her orgasm had felt so good, and the pollution of her body by Sombra’s sweat and farts no longer caused a reaction of pure disgust but a mixture of that emotion and dark, forbidden horniness. Her sexual impulses were becoming intertwined with mistreatment and humiliation and recepticlization. She was beginning to get off on being a toilet.  
  
“We have an audience for you today,” Sombra sneered, and with a flick of her finger, a miniature camera-drone buzzed into the room, hovering above them all. “We are going to film your final submission! Millions of people are going to see what a worthless toilet you are,  _putana_! Of course our faces will be redacted, but yours will be perfectly clear to everyone who wants to tune in to this livestream and watch you swallow a huge load of our backed-up shit!” With another ‘click’, the camera was activated, and Tracer’s humiliation began to be broadcast to the world - with the scrolling text TRACER OF OVERWATCH, USED AS A TOILET! at the bottom of the screen.  
  
The camera spared no detail. The moist, roughly triangular rim of Widowmaker’s ass, blushing a slightly deeper shade of blue than the fleshy globes bracketing it, began to expand outward, turning a depression into a protruding volcanic caldera that was about to blow! She reached behind herself and pulled apart her ass-meat lewdly, leaving nothing to obstruct the path between her shitter and Tracer’s dazed, compliant face. “Beg for it!” Sombra threatened. “Beg for it, right in front of your own allies! They’re all watching, you know! Your girlfriend, the gorilla, that fat climatologist, Dr. Ziegler and Morrison and those Egyptian cunts! They’re all tuning in to see what a toilet you are!”  
  
As Sombra’s words echoed in her ears, Tracer watched with wide eyes as Widowmaker’s puffy, swollen turd-cutter began to spread apart, revealing the prow of a battleship-class, rock-hard, constipated dump. She imagined all of her former friends and admirers - the thousands upon thousands who had held her up as the pinnacle of hope and justice! Those cute kids from the museum who had clearly had a crush on her - all of them were on their PCs and their phones and viewscreens, watching her get used as a toilet. It was too much, and she hesitated. Knowing they were watching, she should struggle, she knew. Don’t give in, so they would at least know it was an unwilling act! But as she steeled herself to strain against her bonds, she felt the vibrators start to ebb again, and Sombra sneering down at her, denying her the cum she needed!   
  
Tracer moaned out in frustration. It was so humiliating and would destroy her reputation forever… but she needed to cum.  _Needed_  to cum!  _Needed_  those vibrators to buzz her clit and her pussy and ass and tits and-  
  
“I… want to swallow your shit!” Tracer wailed, shuddering as the vibrating eggs were instantly turned up, providing positive reinforcement, cementing in her brain that humiliation equalled pleasure.  It took her sweating, overwhelmed body over the edge and into a firecracker climax. “Feed me your fucking shit! Use me as a toilet! Let me eat nothing but your smelly, nasty shit for the rest of my life!” Tracer moaned and opened her mouth, extending her tongue for what was about to come.   
  
Widowmaker gritted her teeth and grunted anew. “Hnnnngh!” Above the hanging, plump flaps of her pudenda, her asshole was expanding like a wormhole. The wrinkles in her ass-rim were flattened and stretched out as her anus formed a blue corona around an emerging shit that was literally as thick as a man’s arm. She gasped as a spray of hot piss blew out of her urethra and straight down onto the floor and Tracer’s splayed knees - her straining had caused her to lose control of her bladder. “Fuck, it’s ripping apart my ass!” she complained, in French-accent English that lent a sick dignity to the proceedings. “I made sure to keep a whole week of backed-up, rock-hard shit for you,  _cherie_! Everyone will see you eating my shit and know that you’re nothing but a toilet!” She squinted her eyes and pulled her thick cheeks apart with her hands, spreading that blue ass-meat as she strained. The first three or four inches of concrete-hard feces began to burrow out of her shitter and toward Tracer’s eager, orgasmic face.  
  
Widowmaker reached up and grabbed the camera drone, pulling it close and speaking directly into the lens. “Watch her, everyone! This is a message to the whole world!  _J'en ai marre de ce petit morveux de merde!_ She has been a thorn in my side too many times, and now, your precious Tracer is going to swallow a big, fat log of my constipated shit! Hnnngh!” To see the famously beautiful Widowmaker straining and shitting like an obese man after a turkey dinner was by itself obscene - she was dripping with sweat, her buttocks gleaming and her asshole completely distended and bulging outward around the cracked, cylindrical mass of shit she was pushing. Her French accent and assassin’s grace, not to mention her feminine wiles, were all at odds with the enormous, ass-ripping  _dump_  she was unloading directly onto her arch-enemy!   
  
Five or six inches were emerging from her ass now, and Sombra pushed Tracer’s face forward into the blunt, hanging end of the solid turd. Lena opened her mouth and was immediately overwhelmed by the bitter, sooty taste of human waste. It spread her lips like the world’s fattest cock and burrowed into her mouth, causing her to dry heave and her eyes to roll back with overwhelmed revulsion! Widowmaker’s mammoth shit was absolutely rock hard and violating her face more completely than any act of unwilling irrumatio. In full view of the world at large, Tracer was becoming nothing more than a shit-gagging toilet whore!  
  
“That’s it,  _putana_! Suck it like it’s the first cock your dyke ass has ever had!” Sombra taunted, pressing her palm into the back of Tracer’s head. “This is your first shit blowjob, so enjoy it! You’re going to be eating a lot more!” Her face was filled with villainous glee. Sombra’s loyalties were her own, of course - she had agendas beyond even Talon - but one thing she and Widowmaker had completely in common was their hatred for Tracer, who Sombra viewed as the most annoying, cheerful, do-gooder bitch on planet earth. “We’re going to lead you around on a leash,  _putana_! You’re going to be eating nothing but our shit from now on! Your mind will be broken down until you start to believe you are actually a toilet, and when I snap my fingers and say  _‘Oye, putana!’_  you’ll get on your skinny knees and open your mouth so I can fart all over your face!”  
  
Widowmaker was dripping with sweat from the exertion of powering such a huge turd out of her stretched-out ass, and grunted again as several more inches slowly emerged. Sombra dragged Tracer’s face forward, taking a fistful of her hair, and making suck and gag on that degrading shitlog as if it was a cock. Tracer’s jaw bulged with the girth of Widowmaker’s noxious emission and her eyes were wide and blank as empty dinner plates. “Nnngh!” Widowmaker moaned. “It’s ripping apart my ass! It’s like being fucked with a really big cock! I’m going to cum from my big shit stretching me out!” She slid a hand down between her legs and started to rub her clit. Her asshole was so distended and dilated that it seemed the nerve-rich ring of tissue would tear open at any moment, but somehow it remained intact as her massive turd reached approached a length of a twelve inches, forming a fat, earthy bridge between her shitpipe and Tracer’s mouth. “Take more!” Widowmaker encouraged. “I want to feel your stupid face against my ass, silly girl!”  
  
Sombra shoved Tracer forward and the enormous, exposed shitlog penetrated her throat and began to burrow down into her guts. In the larger world, Tracer’s biggest fans buried their faces in her their hands and began sobbing uncontrollably; there was no doubt now that their hero, Lena Oxton, do-gooder and defender of omnic rights, was deep-throating the biggest, nastiest log of shit ever recorded on video. It was _astounding_  that Widowmaker’s graceful body could produce such a corpulent emission, and even more astounding that Tracer’s even-more slender mouth and throat could absorb it! Everyone watching could even _see_  the outline of Widow’s greasy, rock-hard turd making Tracer’s neck bulge out - and there was no doubt the peppy Overwatch mascot was cumming her brains out from the violation! The combination of the vibrators ravaging her pussy and ass and the utter degradation of being used as a toilet, with Widow’s bitter, stinky shit absolutely dominating her body and drowning her in a brutal stench, was too much for her willpower to bear.  
  
A switch tripped in Tracer’s mind as the orgasms ravaged her body. She didn’t care who was watching or what the future held - all she wanted to do was be the best toilet she could ever be, and cum over and over again from the  _humiliation_  and the  _stink_. Even though she had never given a blowjob in her life and had spent her aviation career muff-diving around the globe, she took to the task with the skill of the world’s nastiest prostitute, gagging and sucking and hollowing her cheeks out around the more than foot-long length of Widowmaker’s emerging turd log, worshiping that mammoth shit as if were a male lover’s cock! Eventually, she managed to deep throat the entire thing, her dainty nose tickling Widowmaker’s tailbone while her hands groped that meaty blue ass, asking for more.  
  
Widowmaker moaned loudly - “uwaaaaaughh!” with the exertion of what happened next, with her bowels clenching and disgorging the bulk of the as-yet-unseen shit, straight down Tracer’s throat. The next foot of human waste rushed out very quickly by comparison, sending the fat log straight down Tracer’s gullet and into her stomach, giving her a true meal of Widow’s week-old, backed-up turd to nourish her newfound taste for degradation. Once inside, as inch after inch of wrist-thick waste poured forth, it coiled up in Tracer’s belly in a steaming pile. It was only after two unbroken feet of hard-packed feces had been pumped down her throat that it finally broke, leaving Tracer with one moist end sticking out of her mouth and allowing Widow’s ass to attempt to close - though it only did so with difficulty. Her asshole, abraded by the passage of such a monster, was puffier than ever; and Tracer, desperately swallowing, tried to take mouthful after mouthful of human waste down into her belly.  
  
“ _Mierda_!” Sombra exclaimed, waving a hand under her nose and looking at Widowmaker with an impressed, raised eyebrow. “What a monster shit! And it fucking  _stinks_! I thought  _mine_  was bad! It’s like puke, and rotten eggs and old lawn clippings!” She nearly gagged, but held her composure.  
  
“Ever since my ass got so big, I’ve been taking the  _biggest_  dumps!” Widowmaker confided, semi-embarrassed, her breath still huffing and puffing from the childbirth-like experience. All told, she had polluted Tracer’s body with over  _three pounds_  of jaw-stretching, brain-melting, rotten shit! The once-proud Overwatch operative was now nothing more than a toilet, and every bit of her body, inside and out, would forever carry the scent of Widowmaker’s waste! Tracer’s brain barely seemed to be functioning any longer, as the mind-melting stench and overwhelming amount of shit, in association with womb-rattling orgasms, had put her into a semi-mindless state. She barely managed to avoid choking to death, and as Sombra released her manacles, she tumbled backward into the ground-unlaid porcelain urinal as if it were a grave, looking blank-eyed at the ceiling and cradling her shit-loaded belly.   
  
The air was still but for all of their gasping breaths, and there was not a memorable British-accented voice line to be heard.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Three months later, Sombra and Widowmaker walked down a dark alley in Prague, with their favorite pet following behind on a glowing leash that matched Sombra’s purple neon jacket piping. They shared a kiss and then tugged on the leash together, urging their ‘dog’ to come along.  
  
Lena Oxton, no longer Tracer, was now codenamed “Toilet” by Talon, and her mental reconditioning was of mixed success. She was useless for combat missions, but her effect on morale was considerable. She was naked except for the chronal stabilizer and a collar, and walked on all fours, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth as she drooled and panted.   
  
“Such a good doggie,” Sombra noted, petting Tracer’s spikey hair (this unruly feature was one that seemed to never change). “I think you deserve a treat!” She pulled up her long jacket to reveal that she was totally nude underneath, then squatted. Last evening, she and Widowmaker, now a couple, had bonded over a meal of Indian food drenched in clarified butter.   
  
Tracer panted brainlessly and crawled over to present her face under Sombra’s asshole. “Doggie wants a treat!” she chirped. “Give Toilet a treat!” All hint of her former personality was gone, except perhaps for a certain dauntless enthusiasm that she had always had, regardless of circumstance. She loved being a toilet, and subsisted on a diet of nothing but the heavy bowel movements of her two mistresses. Since that fateful day in the bathroom, she had gleefully consumed hundreds and hundreds of pounds of human feces, straight from their assholes.  
  
Sombra and Widowmaker embraced in a deep tongue kiss as Sombra’s tummy rumbled with a grotesque liquid gravidity. Tracer knew what to do, and fastened her lips around her mistresses’ quivering asshole as best she could, pulling her thick cheeks apart to get the best angle.   
  
 _Pbbbbbththtb-thb-bt!_  
  
“Mierda! Ever since we started eating at those cheap ethnic restaurants, I always take the nastiest shits!” she lamented, and went right back to kissing Widowmaker as she ripped another loose, liquid-sounding fart down Tracer’s throat. They had bonded over their mutual sadism and desire to subjugate Tracer, who started fingering herself and eagerly awaited the torrent of spicy mud to come.  
  
All three women were completely content.

 


End file.
